chapter Seventeen
If there were a Girl Scout merit badge for sitting through uncomfortable silences, I would have qualified for it a thousand times over. Lucas and I sat on opposite sides of the backseat while Dominick listened to a crackling classic-rock radio station. “Freebird” twanged on, with brief static solos to change things up a little.
Lucas cleared his throat, and I shifted closer to the door, crossing my arms tighter over my stomach. I refused to look at him.
“Are you going to—?”
I turned, regarding him directly for the first time since we’d left New Orleans, and the move surprised him enough he stopped talking mid-sentence. Either that or my curls had turned into snakes and I’d transformed him into a statue.
“Where are we going?” My gaze was trained on Lucas but somehow Dominick understood the question was for him. Maybe because of the warmth in my voice.
“St. Francisville.”
“Where?” He might as well have told me we were going to Timbuktu for all St. Francisville meant to me.
This time Lucas spoke, forcing me to focus my attention on him for real. “We’re going north. St. Francisville is just beyond Baton Rouge.”
“And flying into the Baton Rouge airport was too obvious?”
“We couldn’t. It’s too deep into Callum’s territory. The only way we could have entered the state that close to his home base was if he brought us. If it had been an option, I think he would have had us land in Florida and drive all the way from there. The only reason we were allowed to go into a Louisiana airport at all was because we were invited.”
Winding the strings from my hood around my fingers, I looked out the window of the car and watched the light from small towns speed by in a glowing blur. The highway wasn’t deserted, but it didn’t feel like we were close to anything substantial anymore.
“Werewolves are f*cking ridiculous.”
Dominick snorted, unable to stop himself in time. To try to hide the gaffe, he turned the volume on the radio up a little more. Eric Clapton crooned on about that coldhearted bitch, Layla. I was betting if I could read Lucas’s mind, he was probably thinking, Amen, Clapton. Amen. Instead of saying this out loud, he sighed his particular, regal sigh. “Then I guess that explains a lot about you, doesn’t it?”
My mouth hung open, and Dominick struggled to keep from laughing, but his shoulders were trembling from the effort. I let out a huff of breath and my lips made a pfffft sound. “Can we agree to try not to get at each other’s throats for this trip? We’re in love. We’re getting married. Can we pretend everything is perfect for Callum’s sake?”
“You’re saying it’s not perfect?” This time his smirk betrayed him.
“Smartass.”
“I think we’re already where my parents were after a decade of marriage. Half an inch from strangling each other to death at any given moment.”
“Well, if we don’t do each other in, something tells me Callum will be more than willing to do it for us.”
Lucas’s charming smirk vanished, and with its departure came the familiar sinking feeling in my gut. I’d been teasing, but he appeared to be worried. Deeply and truly worried. He reached across the seat and took my hand, giving it a squeeze of false comfort. He might have meant to be comforting, but I knew he didn’t feel certain of our safety. It was written all over his face.
I squeezed back. “Everything is going to be fine.”
“I don’t know.” He had turned to stare out the window, and now I was looking at the back of his head. “I just don’t know.”
As it turned out, St. Francisville was a two-hour drive north of New Orleans, and the most interesting sight on the way was the dim, ominous outline of the Maurepas swamplands. The farther north we crawled, the more the silence thickened between Lucas and me, to the point where I was looking forwards to hearing whatever shitty, crackling song would come on the radio next because it was just one more three-minute interruption to the uneasy quiet.
The sign welcoming us to St. Francisville felt like a pin in the inflated balloon of our tension. The car ahead of us that held Morgan, Jackson and the member of Callum’s pack serving as our guide drove past the beautiful stately homes of the small town. The street was lined by big, old houses with wraparound porches and potted plants that were in bloom even in the early spring climate.
In the grand tradition of all American small towns, the main street was called Main Street, and we followed it all the way through the heart of the town and right back out again. I whipped my head around and watched our destination shrink out of sight into the gloom of the night.
“Uhhhh.”
“Patience.”
“And sweetness, my two greatest traits.”
“Eyes up front,” Lucas directed, gently rotating my chin towards the front seat again. “Look.”
The car ahead of us took a left turn and pulled off the main highway onto an unlit road. Dominick hit the signal and followed onto the gravel.
The wheels crunched the small rocks with the crackle of a bag of chips. Waving sycamore boughs dripping with moss brushed the roof of the car and hung in green curtains down the visible length of the road. A road that seemed to go forever and onward into nothing.
After about five minutes of driving through the Louisiana equivalent of a car wash, the road turned to proper pavement and fanned out into a huge circular driveway. In the center of the driveway was a fountain featuring a low rocky outcropping with a wolf standing on top posed in a howl stance.
The lead car pulled off to the side and we followed suit, taking an open spot in a parking lot already brimming full with a variety of mismatched automobiles ranging from a battered pickup with a Confederate flag sticker in the back window to a silver Lexus convertible.
The three Harley motorcycles next to the fountain piqued my interest, but I said nothing. What the hell were all these cars doing out here, and where was my uncle’s house?
Morgan and Jackson got out of the backseat, and Dominick let himself out before coming around to open Lucas’s door. Once Lucas was out, he rounded the back of the car and released me, offering me a hand to give me a more graceful exit from the backseat.
I don’t know how much grace mattered considering my T-shirt had a prancing cartoon pony on it and my hoodie had f*cking ears.
The other driver was a petite young woman with auburn hair who was about two inches shorter than me and looked ten times nicer. She was smiling so much I thought her teeth might crack. Considering how actively Morgan was ignoring the wee driver, I suspected our resident alpha bitch wasn’t a big fan of the shorter woman.
Which meant I liked her right away.
“Your Majesty,” she said, dropping to her knees at Lucas’s feet and ducking her head so low it touched the tips of his shoes. “It is my most profound pleasure to have brought you safely before my king. My name is Magnolia, and I will be at your service during your stay.”
Magnolia got to her feet then stood in front of me. Her smile widened, which I didn’t think was possible. “Your Royal Highness.” Her voice pitched upwards with excitement, then she repeated her toe-touching bow. “I can’t tell you what a joy it is to welcome our long-lost princess back.” She clasped my hand and squeezed. “I will do anything you need. Anything.”
Creepy.
“Well…thanks, Mags.”
Her hazel eyes lit up. “Mags,” she repeated.
Had this girl never heard of a nickname? Did people seriously only call her Magnolia?
Goddamn, I’d dodged a bullet when I avoided being raised by the Southern McQueen clan.
Mags wasn’t a McQueen because of the way she was genuflecting like a motherf*cker all over Lucas and me. No one in the upper ranks of the pack would be required to display such a show of obedience.
Magnolia bowed to each of us again—much more subtly this time—then swept her arm to a small path at our left. The winding trail was paved with red wood chips and led up a hill. We followed her lead, Dominick ahead of Lucas and me, while Morgan and Jackson brought up the rear.
Once we’d crested the hill, the answer to where the house was hidden became obvious. A massive Greek-revival plantation house was nestled amongst a group of huge, ancient oak trees whose trunks were green with thick, spongy-looking moss. The house itself rose two stories up, but judging by the height, the rooms inside must have all had twelve-to-fifteen-foot ceilings. Eight white columns lined the front of the house, with more around the sides supporting the roof for the wraparound verandah.
Brilliantly white and clean, the house looked equal parts modern elegance and old-fashioned charm. Above the verandah’s roof was a third floor that was smaller, as though someone had plopped a guesthouse on top, the proverbial cherry at the end of a sundae.
The chip wood path split into a fork, one end leading to the house, another winding behind it and off into the darkness. I didn’t know much about plantations, but I suspected there were more buildings, some equipment sheds and maybe a real guest suite. I was hopeful about the latter, because in spite of the beauty of the main house, I wanted to keep my distance from my uncle.
Magnolia trotted ahead and took the three steps up to the verandah in one leap. A man emerged from the front door, and she hit the deck with such speed I thought she’d been knocked over, but the drop was too graceful. Her forehead was practically against the wooden planks. If I had three guesses as to who the man was, I’d use one and two to suggest Santa or the Tooth Fairy, because they’d be totally unnecessary.
Lucas and I arrived at the steps. I wanted to stay on the ground, but Lucas had no interest in standing lower than the other man. He bounded up the stairs, waiting for Magnolia to move before he extended his hand.
Callum McQueen, Southern werewolf King, was as large in height as Lucas and broader across the chest. He wasn’t yet forty, but the hair around his temples had begun to go gray, showing in stark contrast to his dark brown curls. Curly hair ran in the McQueen family. Blond did not.
Thanks, Dad.
I was betting the women of the south appreciated Callum’s hard jaw and its thick, dark covering of stubble, which clung to his face not unlike moss clung to the oaks. His eyes were dark brown, and if they were the windows to the soul, his were shuttered. Callum’s expression was unreadable. He looked down at Lucas’s offered hand then turned his attention to me, where I remained on the ground level.
“Callum,” Lucas said, forcing his face into an approximation of a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”
If anyone else had addressed Callum so casually, it would have been seen as an incredible faux pas. But Lucas was a king too, and as much as neither of them liked it, they were equals.
After an achingly long pause, Callum took Lucas’s hand and shook it. “Welcome to my home, Lucas. It’s been awhile. Last time I saw you, you were just a pup.”
It wasn’t an outright insult, but I caught on to what Callum was doing. He was trying to remind Lucas who the older, wiser king was of the two of them. Well, older was right at least.
“We were all younger men, once,” Lucas replied politely.
Well played.
“Yes. And now you’re marrying my niece.” Once again the Southern king’s attention pivoted to me, and this time it lingered. “My long-departed niece.”
“Hello…Your Majesty.” I grimaced after the words came out. Even to me they sounded petulant and forced.
Callum pretended not to notice and offered me a smile and his hand. I climbed the steps hesitantly, expecting to fall into a booby trap any moment. I reached the top unscathed and placed my hand in his. His handshake was firm but not crushing. He didn’t need to force his strength on to people. His power was obvious without being showy. He was confident he would be respected in his domain.
“So this is our little Secret.” He took my other hand and held my arms out from my side, like a dressmaker who was checking for a good fit. “My goodness, all grown up.”
“Grandmere made sure I got my vitamins.”
“Grandmere.” He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. Indeed. How is my mother?”
That was a rich question. She’d run away from him because she believed under his teenage leadership my life would be at risk. Now I was standing here in his clutches—literally—and he was asking after her health.
“She’s well.” I said nothing else.
“Good.” He nodded once. And again. “Good.” He dropped my arms. Neither of us commented on my ensemble, for which I was grateful. “Well, let’s not spend the whole night on the porch. The rest of the pack is at the bar. Magnolia will take you there, and I will meet you later.”
The bar? We drove two hours, and now he wanted us to leave again to make our introductions to a bunch of drunk wolves? Could this get more ridiculous?
“Come on,” Magnolia said, walking around the side of the verandah.
“Uh, don’t we need our cars?” I asked.
“Why? The bar is out back.”